


My Lord

by Galadriel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel





	My Lord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keiliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/gifts).



"My lord." The voice was low, hushed, but it slipped past the peals of laughter, shouting and song to nestle in Boromir's ear all the same. Boromir raised a hand, waving the voice away. He was no one's lord tonight, no one's captain, and all he wanted to do was drink deep of the mead that flowed unceasingly into his cup, and surreptitiously watch the young man at a table not too distant from Boromir's own. 

The man had caught Boromir's eye early in the evening, after Boromir's own men had tumbled into the tavern, fresh from a small but not-insignificant triumph. Bloodied and battered they may have been, but they had driven back the band of marauding orcs that had been plaguing farms far outside the walls of Minas Tirith, and restored some measure of safety to the steadfast families who continued to plow their fields and feed the people kept safe behind the White City's walls. They deserved their triumph, momentary as it might be, and Boromir was sure to let the tavern-keeper know that the Steward's House paid for all libations this night.

At first, Boromir had let the cheer of his men buoy him up, but eventually he found himself content to sit separate, at his own table, quietly revelling in his soldiers' smiles, their joy, the simple pleasure of an evening where the weight of fear and duty lessened, just a little bit. As much as the drink and happiness warmed him, it didn't take long before his attention wandered and his eye began to rove. 

It settled quickly on a dark-haired, grey-eyed beauty. He judged the man to be close to his age, only a year or two distant from his own six and twenty, but his face did not yet carry lines of worry etched deep into his brow, nor the tight-set mouth that marked all those who had seen the armies of the Nameless One march forth from that Black Land. His cheeks were unblemished, stained only by the flush of heat, and his eyes sparkled, clear and bright. It was as if the unceasing war that raged around them touched him not one whit. Unconsciously, Boromir wet his lips, wondering what it would have been like to live a life in which he was not yoked to the plough of service, his body bent low with the burden of rule. He did not resent his people; in fact, he yearned to protect them better, to deliver them free unto a future lived beyond the reach of the Shadow, but he did wish to know what it might be like to shrug off that mantle, if only for a moment. 

He was certain that he would taste that freedom in the lightest brush of the young man's lips.

" _My lord_." The voice was stronger now, more insistent, and it was accompanied by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Boromir frowned. The man that would grace this evening's dreams had become aware he was being watched, and had just flashed Boromir a broad, winning smile. A smile that had made Boromir's heart skip a beat and his toes curl in his boots. Irritated, he glanced towards the source of the voice, a sharp word already on the tip of his tongue, ready to cut the man who dared to interrupt his musings to ribbons.

One glimpse of Beregond's grave expression was enough for the words to wither between Boromir's lips. Without hesitation, Boromir rose. Of all of his men, Beregond would never seek to break into his thoughts, disturb his peace for anything less than the most grave of reasons.

Beregond glanced at the young man who had lately held Boromir's attention, then leaned in slightly closer to Boromir, speaking in a confidential whisper. "If you would, my lord, I wish to speak privately with you." Beregond's breath ghosted across the whorls of Boromir's ear, and Boromir shivered lightly as the light caress of it raised goosebumps down his neck. 

"Of course." The pleasant buzzing sensation courtesy of the mead in his stomach and the hopes in his head faded as quickly as a summer day gave way to rain. "Lead the way. Somewhere more quiet would no doubt be best." 

He gestured to the entrance of the tavern, but Beregond shook his head. "One of the private rooms above will suffice."

Boromir raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless, inclined his head. It seemed to him that the noise from below would filter up, interrupting their counsel, but if it was urgent enough that they must speak immediately, it would have to do.

In mere moments, Boromir found himself in a small room towards the back of the tavern's second floor. He was correct: the hubbub from the first floor provided a gentle rumble underneath their feet, masking the creaking of stairs and floorboards as they ascended, and cloaking the squeal of door hinges as Beregond shut the portal tight. 

Boromir looked around. The room was hardly furnished: nothing more than a small, rough-hewn bed, unfit for more than a body and a half to lie comfortably; a rickety table and one chair, serving both as a dining service and writing space; a washbasin on a stand, in front of a clouded mirror covered with spidering cracks; and a stubby wardrobe, hunched in the far corner of the room, lurking next to the only window like a sulking child. He frowned at the chair, then the bed, and turned to Beregond, who was still standing, arms held loosely at his sides, in front of the door. "I think perhaps we should repair to a more well-outfitted roo--"

Beregond pushed away from the door, strode across the floor in two paces, and was upon Boromir before he could finish his sentence. His lips were rough and dry against Boromir's own, no doubt chapped and cracked by the elements as Beregond stood shoulder to shoulder with his fellows, wind whipping across their bodies as they marched in even the most inclement weather. His arms were strong, tightly wound around Boromir's back, tempered by years of swordplay and bowstrings. 

Stunned into inaction, Boromir merely let the sensations wash over him. Beregond's kiss was full of hunger and heat, betraying a long-burning desire that Boromir would never have guessed at. Beregond did not taste of freedom, not like Boromir had imagined the young man downstairs would taste. No, it was a far more familiar taste that graced Boromir's lips, one that had him curving his arms around Beregond's waist, pulling them tight, hips to hips, groin to groin. 

No, Beregond tasted of duty and loyalty, leashed passions and tempered hearts.

Boromir moaned, parting his lips, and as any good commander might, Beregond took advantage of the breach. He plundered Boromir's mouth, passion turning to possession, until Boromir clung to Beregond, uncertain of his own footing, and hard enough to threaten the soundness of the lacings of his breeches. 

After too short a time, Beregond broke the kiss. He made no move to release Boromir, however, for which Boromir was glad. He was sure he would sink to his knees as soon as he was let go.

"My lord--" Beregond began.

Boromir shook his head, smiling feebly. "Now is not the time to use titles, Beregond. Speak to me as you would any equal, for you have levelled the field of battle in one fell swoop."

Beregond nodded, but seemed to hesitate all the same. The thunder of the tavern beneath filled the silence between them, seeming to swell even as Beregond and Boromir fell silent. 

Finally, Beregond murmured, "It is well known that you are to be betrothed to the Lady Eowyn when she comes of age."

Boromir sighed. He had been brought up to understand that his duties would always extend far past defending the White City, and had long ago accepted that any marriage would be for the sake of cementing alliances, yet he often wondered if the slip of a girl who was to be saddled with him had the kinds of dreams he had, where he was free to choose his own path, to be husband, wife or none, paired or singly strong instead of another wheel slotted blindly in place to churn the mill-water and grind the grain.

"It is also..." Here, Beregond paused again, licking his lips in what seemed like a nervous gesture. Instinctively, Boromir leaned closer, wanting to answer each swipe of tongue with a swipe of his own. "There are rumours," Beregond started again, "Rumours that you look not to the ladies to quench your baser thirsts." He cleared his throat. "Rumours you were on the verge of confirming this very night."

Boromir made a soft noise. So he had been observed, even as he was observing. He had thought himself discreet, but if even the faintest of suspicions wound their way up to the Citadel and the ears of his father, Denethor would accuse Boromir of working to untie their long-held bonds with Rohan. He was promised to Theoden's niece, and any suspicions that he would not be able to complete his husbandly duties on the far, distant day of their marriage, Denethor would read as a slight. There must be heirs to unite the two kingdoms, and Boromir was assurance that those heirs would come to pass.

He began to unwind himself from Beregond, his mind already working through ways to mitigate any damage, to find a way to accept celibacy as his bedroom companion. Yet Beregond's hold tightened. "My lor-- _Boromir_ ," Beregond murmured. "I do not mean to distress you, only... offer another path, one that has long been traced upon my heart."

Boromir blinked; he could feel his eyebrows rising at the first faint stirrings of hope in his chest. The kiss had left him breathless, of course, but surely it could not mean more than any other kiss he had exchanged with any other man who had briefly wandered into his orbit. 

"I had hoped that you would see that duty is not the only rope that binds me to you." Beregond's tonguetip flicked against his upper lip. "I had hoped that you would see into my thoughts, but neither of us is touched by the Sight, are we?" He smiled ruefully. "It is only of late, as these rumours began to spread, that I allowed that hope freer rein. For if you were interested in men-at-arms instead of ladies-in-waiting, perhaps you might consider me."

Boromir's eyes widened. It was true, he had long held Beregond in high esteem, a man whom he would be proud to call friend. It was just as true that on more than one occasion, Beregond had graced Boromir's most private thoughts, his solid, strong frame nude before Boromir's mind's eye, an incitement to indulgence as Boromir grasped and stroked himself beneath the sheets of his own soft bed. 

Yet there were reasons to hesitate, to preach moderation and abstinence before greedily grabbing at the prize offered. "You understand," he slowly began, "that what you are proposing would incur great risk on your part? If we were to be found out, you would be stripped of everything: status, titles... your position amongst the ranks, any possibility of becoming one of the Fountain Guards."

"I would give my life to protect you and your family, my lord. Status and titles mean little to me."

Boromir smiled. "You speak as if you have already donned the white wings. As much as it would please me to see you take your rightful place amongst the Tower Guard, I will be heartbroken once that day comes. I look to you for your counsel, Beregond, as much as I trust the blade in your hand."

"I have not flown yet, my lord." Beregond chuckled, unwinding himself from Boromir so he could begin to tug at the fastenings of Boromir's surcoat. "And even if I was to be granted such a boon, even if I no longer stand shoulder to shoulder with you in the blood and muck, I am ever by your side."

Boromir opened his mouth to reply, yet found that he was struck dumb; he could think of no one outside of his dear brother who would freely pledge themselves to him in such a way. It was an honour, to be sure, but a privilege also, a kind of loyalty that required careful handling and safekeeping. He felt his own heart flutter in response, the wings of sea-birds returning home after a long flight beyond the reach of Men.

Speechless, he did the only thing he could think of, and leaned in close to capture Beregond's mouth in another teasing kiss. He lingered there, lips pressed to lips, and let his hands roam, pulling at cloth and lacings, impatience twining with newly-bloomed desire. "Then we shall be discreet," he murmured as he broke the kiss, "and find safety under the spreading wings of duty. There shall we be equals, I yours, and you mine." He chuckled then, yanking Beregond's shirt over his head, baring his wide chest to questing fingertips. "It was good of you to choose such a private chamber, Beregond-mine." Boromir hooked two fingers into the waist of Beregond's breeches, tugging him backwards towards the bed. "Yet next time, perhaps, you can seek out one with a bigger bed."

Beregond grinned, giving Boromir a little shove that had him step backward, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Down he tumbled, thumping firmly onto the mattress even as he pulled Beregond down with him. "Yes, my lord," Beregond rumbled, as he covered Boromir's body with his own. "Of course, my-- _Boromir_. Of course." 

Beregond's kisses were bruising, and Boromir was sure they would leave trails upon his body. Yet each one still felt and tasted familiar: the full-flavour of duty, of loyalty, of loosed passions and overflowing hearts.


End file.
